


Lost That Easy

by littlelionlady



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Crying, F/M, Family, Feels, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Golden Trio, Grief, Harry has an episode, His best mates tuck him in, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Mourning, Non-Graphic Trauma Responses, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Sharing a Bed, Trauma, aftermath of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 23:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionlady/pseuds/littlelionlady
Summary: After the war, Harry Potter expects to be able to go to sleep, finally. But it was awarand it's a war that's still waging, inside his head. That's okay though; his best friends didn't leave him then, and they certainly won't leave him now.In which, Harry has an episode, and Hermione and Ron comfort him.





	Lost That Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the ever lovely [Darkest_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkest_Sun). 
> 
> Hello lovelies, please enjoy the first fic I've ever written for this fandom. I am honoured a privileged to have loved and grown up with Harry, Ron and Hermione. They were there for me in a time when I thought no one else was; whenever darkness was its own nightmare and every day ran into the next. If Harry could make it through year after year on sheer willpower, and spite, then so could I. 
> 
> This story is important to me because PTSD was something that Jo never touched on with the trio, and yet was something that seemed to be unavoidable after reading about their lives. Surely the things Harry experienced would have altered him in ways that would have left deep scars. Harry's whole life was in preparation for this war; he was a soldier. So what happened to him when it was all over? I know there are multiple fics about this, post-war fics are my favourite. But I wanted a description of Harry, weak and vulnerable, and Harry still finding things to hold onto. He would get better, of course, he would. But getting better takes time. 
> 
> [Darkest_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkest_Sun) always reminds me that progress is not linear. I wish Jo had shown us that. It would have helped me, and maybe thousands more, to know. 
> 
> So with that in mind; there is a warning here for PTSD, anxiety, mild death ideation, hopelessness and flashbacks. It's not graphic, but it's there. 
> 
> Title from a Cold War Kids Song.

_I’ve wandered, seen visions, I never could fit in_

_I’m out here, you’ll find me, I never lost that easy._

 

 

*

 

 

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, shaking and sweating profusely. He felt cold all over. Cold, wet and hopeless. It was like being in the Forest of Dean all over again. His body ached and when he closed his eyes, he could still see flashes of green. It didn’t matter who the green was directed at - just that it was there. Harry really didn’t like green. It made him feel sick.

“Just a dream,” he muttered to himself, drawing his knees up to his chest and trying to fight the rising wave of panic in his chest, “A dream.”

He tried to practice what the Mind Healer had taught him; in through the nose for five counts, out through the mouth for five counts. Instead, even as he counted, his breaths came out more like ragged sobs. His eyes prickled at the corners and he mashed the palms of his hands against them, willing himself not to cry. No more crying. He had done enough of that. The war was over; it had been over for four months. He’d defeated the darkest wizard in history and instead of getting on with his life, he went back to exactly how it was before the war.

Dark and scary and without nearly enough sleep.

And by _Merlin_ did Harry just want to _sleep._

Not wanting to sit in the dark any longer, Harry got out of bed on shaking limbs and padded over to the landing, not entirely sure where he was going. The Burrow was quiet around him; still breaths and faint snoring emitted from various rooms. Occasionally, someone would yell or cry, then there would be faint steps and the sound of a door opening, and hushed voices as whoever had been in the closest room calmed them. Harry had become adept at silent nightmares ever since the fifth year. No one ever bothered him. But they still knew he wasn’t sleeping. Molly had tried to push it, and Harry had stormed out of the house and not come back until dinner.

He still felt awful about it, but she had assured him it was okay, patted his cheek and loaded his plate. She was too kind to him; always too kind, too nice. There was nothing he could ever do to repay her, and it was a debt she didn’t seem to want to collect. Harry still arranged for 10 galleons a week to be transferred to the Weasley vault as board. He couldn’t bear to go back to Grimmauld place, and there was nowhere else for him really. Not now.

Harry tiptoed up two flights of stairs to the bathroom, emptied his bladder and washed his hands. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he almost didn’t recognise his own reflection; dark, heavy circles under his eyes and skin pulled tight to the sharp angles of his face. There was colour returning to him, of course he knew that, he’d seen photos of himself straight after the war, but he still looked gaunt somehow. Lost. Unmoored. His hands were still shaking when he thrust them back under the tap to splash water on his sticky skin.

“It was just a dream Harry,” he told himself firmly, peering at that grim face, “No need to get all worked up about it. It’s _over._ ”

The words still didn’t fit right on his tongue. _The war is over._ He would repeat it to himself, again and again, and somehow it just never felt real. He could still taste the ash and magic of Hogwarts crumbling around them, still hear the screams of his friends and allies falling falling falling to their deaths and painful tortures, feel the wet crunch of the Forbidden Forest as he walked to what he thought would be his death. He could feel Hagrid’s chest heaving in sobs as he lifted Harry back to the castle. He could still sense Hermione’s hopeless distance and the sharp pangs of the hunger they tried so desperately to keep at bay. And the fear, oh yes, Harry could still feel the fear; sharp and bitter on his tongue and boiling in his blood. It consumed him, rocked him to sleep at night and shook him awake again only hours later, sweaty and restless and 

And part of him, that part he’d never told anyone about, had almost been _disappointed_ when he woke up in the forest with Narcissa Malfoy asking if her son was alive. Like the concept of death also meant release; the war wouldn’t be his anymore.

He shook his head and gripped the sink, “Stupid Harry.”

He was still trembling. He couldn’t stop the trembling, and he felt cold. Sweat had dried against his spine, under his arms, and in his hair. He could feel like salty stickiness on the back of his neck and his palms. His eyes kept prickling and he knew, even as his throat felt like it was going to close up, that it would be really bad to cry. He was meant to be getting better.

Harry tried to focus on his hands, counting the cuts and the scratches and the scars, but it wasn’t enough and, much like every night, the faces of his friends and family swam into his line of vision, swallowing everything else until all he could see was them. One after the other; faces frozen in time, and vacant.

Fred. Remus. Tonks. Colin. Dobby. Dumbledore. Lavender being mauled. Molly mourning her son. Bill’s face. Snape’s voice, “You have your mother’s eyes.” _Sirius_. 

When the first sob worked its way out of his lungs, Harry's whole body jerked forward painfully. He surprised even himself with the force of it. His breath was coming in half gasps and sobs, unsure if there was too lunch air in his lungs or not enough. His eyes stung, his chest hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, “I’m so sorry.”

He sunk to the floor, pushed his back against the bathtub and pulled his knees up to his chest again, wrapping his arms tightly around them, as if to stop his insides from falling out. He was sure it was happening, that he was falling apart, finally. _Finally._ Tears were hot and wet on his face, sticky and salty like the sweat had been, and equally without relief.

The door creaked open slowly and quietly.

“Harry?” It was Hermione’s voice.

Harry tried to swallow the sobs down, he really did, but it wasn’t working. And when he saw the worry in her eyes, the abject terror and pain he had subjected her to, they doubled in strength and frequency.

“Oh Harry,” she dropped to the floor next to him, face flooded with concern and worry, and wrapped her arms tightly around him. He pressed his face into the side of her neck and heaved. Her shirt smelt like Ron. She rubbed soothing circles into his back and combed a hand through his hair. They sat like this for a while, Harry not being able to control the, extremely embarrassing, tears and Hermione attempting to pacify him. Or at least get him to breathe. His head was swimming.

“‘Mione? Harry?” Ron stepped blearily into the semi-darkness of the bathroom, saw them sitting tangled on the floor, Harry still sobbing, and sighed.

He pushed himself off the door frame and sat on Harry’s other side, putting an arm around his drawn up knees and another around his shoulders and across Hermione’s as well, pulling them both close to his chest.

“It’s alright Harry,” he said quietly, “The war is over.”

Harry tried to swallow again, “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry for all of this.” 

He wanted to pull away from them, to give them space. He had been trying ever since he got to the Burrow, when the funerals were all over and the press releases and trials all done. But the harder he tried, the more they held onto him, Gryffindor stubbornness abounding.

Ron shushed him, “I know you don’t believe it mate,” Harry felt Ron’s lips brush the top of his head, “But it’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

Harry managed to breathe, once, a ragged thing, but ground gained none the less. His head briefly came back into focus, before it spun away again, dragging him back to his last night with Remus, “I’m sorry,” he mumbled again.

“Come on Harry,” Hermione murmured against his forehead, “One more breath.”

He breathed in and out again. His head focused a little more. He did it again.

“That’s it love,” she said, “Keep breathing like that Harry. It’s not real. It’s over now.”

He shuddered between them, even as his breathing slowed and spiked. It was still so cold, his chest still hurt.

Hermione disentangled herself from the two boys on the bathroom floor and came back with a warm, wet cloth. She pressed it gently against his skin and wiped over Harry’s face and the back of his neck, and briefly, he let himself be cleaned up by his friends. His family now, he supposed. Certainly closer than any family he could remember. Closer even than that. He shuddered again, and Ron tightened his grip, breath hitching. Harry knew; this was his worst one yet. Nothing had prepared them for the end of the war. Nothing had prepared them for what their minds would do. His Mind Healer had likened it to what the muggle soldiers went through during their own wars. Harry supposed the Healer hadn’t been far off.

“Harry,” Ron sounded wan, “Do you want to get up now?”

Harry took a deep breath and straightened out his spine. He nodded once, refusing to look at his friends, feeling the shame creep into his limbs.

Hermione held out a hand, and Harry took it, letting her pull him to his feet, feeling his spine and hips crack. She leaned down and pulled Ron up too. Her hair was even bushier than usual, and she was wearing just a shirt. One of Ron’s. Harry could feel the bare skin of Ron’s shoulder pressing against his side, where his friend stood too close, keeping an eye on him. All he wore was his pyjama pants, just like he always had. Harry didn’t mind. He liked that they were comfortable with him. Accepting of him. He had given them space, and they had pulled him into their arms instead. Now was not the time to be alone.

Harry’s heart reached out to them with sheer love and affection. People like them couldn’t go through this, and not be close. _Family._ His mind supplied. Family but closer. Comfortable.

Ron chucked an arm over Harry’s shoulders and led him out of the bathroom, and up the hallway, to the room he was sharing with Hermione. Molly had wanted to kick up a fuss, but after everything, even she had decided it was better for loved ones to be near. Ginny hadn’t pushed Harry, and for that he was grateful. Now wasn’t the time; maybe it never would be, not right now, not while he was like this. He’d told her to do what made her happy. She’d kissed his cheek sadly and said thank you. Harry didn’t want to be thanked. He wasn’t a hero.

His legs were still shaking and weak. He was hiccuping, and there was still a few stray tears sliding down his nose and chin.

Hermione pushed the door open, and clambered into the bed, over on the far side, under the window. She lifted the covers while Ron pushed Harry under them. He was tired, so, so tired. Shuddering and sore. So tired he didn’t fuss at the attention. Hermione plucked the glasses from his face, as Ron settled into next to them.

“How do you want to do this?” Hermione asked. Harry expected the question to be weird, but it wasn’t. Nothing was weird between them anymore. He just trembled and choked. He remembered Fred’s face, frozen, laugh lines still present even as his life faded away.

Ron moved first, rolling Harry over so his head was under his chin, Harry’s face pressed into his collarbone.

“It’s alright mate,” Ron murmured through a yawn, “You’re safe here. Everyone is safe now.”

Harry felt the warm weight of Hermione curl against his back, her knees tucked behind his, and her arm thrown over his waist, breathing against the hairs on the back of his head. He convulsed hard again, once, and then stilled.

“That’s it, Harry,” Hermione said, “We have you. We won’t let you go.”

“We’ve got you mate,” Ron said again, “We love you Harry. It’s okay now. Go to sleep.”

He felt Hermione’s hand reach out of pat Ron’s side. It was good. To be loved.

He fell asleep.


End file.
